The baby was born silently, my fists clenched tight.
“What will you name him?”
“Chidera,” I whispered. “Because what God has written, no one can erase.”
Life became a battle. Chidera and I shared borrowed mattresses, cold nights, and hungry days. When he turned six, he asked:
“Mom, where is my dad?”
“He traveled far, son. One day he’ll come back.”
“Why doesn’t he call?”
“Maybe he lost his way.”
But he never came.
When Chidera was nine, he fell ill. Fever, coughing, fatigue. The doctor said:
“It’s a simple operation. But it’ll cost sixty thousand naira.”
I didn’t have it. I sold my ring, my radio, begged for loans. Still, it wasn’t enough.
I buried my son alone, wrapping him in a blue blanket beside a torn photo of his father.
“Forgive me, son. I didn’t know how to save you.”
